Now I Know My ABCs
by T. Rickass
Summary: Just a collection of drabbles, layed out in an alphabet-challenge fashion because I'm allergic to plots. Elemenopee.
1. A is for Asphalt

**A is for Asphalt**

When Axel's eyes cracked open, greens peaking through red lashes to squint due to the sun, the first thing he did was roll over and throw an arm over his face to block it out. He wiggled his other arm out from under himself to sweep it across the space next to him, expecting to be met with a warm body. The sheet-wrinkled limb was dragged over the space, finding nothing, before he sat up and glared at the empty pillow next to its twin. Sleep-crusted eyes flicked around the room, before finally settling on the figure standing outside, leaning against the balcony railing while the door hung wide open. He scanned the other's bare shoulders, the Italian morning sun making the cling-film covering a new tattoo shine blindingly against tan skin and dandelion hair. Dainty - too dainty for a male really, Axel liked to joke that he must have been female prior to their meeting - fingers flicked cigarette ash into the street below before bringing the cancer stick to chapped lips and inhaling, ribs standing prominent as his lungs expanded for the toxic chemicals to make themselves home. As he finished his cigarette, Axel watched him flick the butt, stare out around him, then hoist himself up and over the railing, disappearing from view.

When the startled shrieks from passers-by indicated Roxas meeting the asphalt below, the redhead blinked, before letting out a sigh and muttering about selfishness as he flopped back into the choking embrace of his bed.

* * *

A/N: So I wanted to start an alphabet challenge-esque thing, and this is A. I wrote this in the middle of an essay on Macbeth, so that's why it's actually pretty weird.

The rest of the alphabet may be around this length, but most of what I've done so far is longer.

Anyway.

Hey.


	2. B is for Back Down

**B is for Back Down**

He didn't ever back down; no matter how many scrapes he acquired, no matter how many bruises exploded under his skin, no matter how many times his knuckles (or his face, that one time) split open to reveal what made him, him. He was doing what he loved and was loving what he was doing; no-one, not even the police when they occasionally showed up, could take this away from him.

Or that's what he had deluded himself into thinking. He had pulled the wool over his eyes himself, thinking he was a necessary being, almighty, one-of-a-kind-could-not-be-replaced.

So when someone, albeit smaller, but better - and only in the back of an ambulance, needles in his skin and questions buzzing behind glazed eyes did he admit this - showed up to smash him, he had scoffed, scraping blue strands into a low ponytail before lunging at the short male in front of him. They didn't call him the _Luna Diviner _for nothing; he had built that name, lived it, breathed it, been chained to a post like a baited bear by it for people's amusement for as long that mattered.

So to say he was the only one shocked by his defeat would be a terrible, and altogether false, assumption. He was a long-running champion, no-one ever beat him. But when the small brunet had flitted around the ring, warehouse dust making the punches to his sternum, his chin, cheeks, anywhere, sting _that _much more, things crumbled. No-one wants to bet on a broken horse, they said.

The kid almost looked sorry as he bent his opponent's elbow in a way one should never bend such a joint, even flinching a little at the howl of pain before stepping back and smiling innocently at the crowd.

When Saix growled deep and swung a well-aimed fist at the boy (not a man. A man in this territory would not show compassion to his opponent) and followed through with a knee to the ribs, he was pulled back by his manager.

_'Back down,' _was hissed into his ear before a hand tightened around his shattered elbow. His knees buckled under the pain and he dropped to them, a sign of defeat. He would deny later the tears in his eyes at the thought that he, reigning champion of the illegal and underground, had been basically slaughtered by a child that looked too innocent to be out on a school-night, let alone breaking bones.

He didn't ever back down; that was his trademark style, what identified him as who he was. But after that night, and the day after when the boy - Sora, he had introduced himself as - visited him in the hospital, he realised that he had, and he didn't mind as much as he thought he would. Especially when they had to be separated due to Saix planting a (forgiving, really. That's what the boy was there for, that and to get an autograph because _honestly I'm a really big fan, I've wanted to be you forever, even when they said that was a stupid dream_) fist in Sora's smiling face, and the brunet returning the favour with an elbow to the gut.

* * *

A/N I don't even know what this is, I'm hungry.

I almost decided to update this thing on a schedule, but then I changed my mind.

Keep up the mysterious air, yeknow? _When will the next update be, woooOooo~_

That's going under the pretence that anyone cares, but hey. A loser can dream.


	3. C is for Crash and Burn

**C is for Crash and Burn**

One minute Roxas is sprinting after someone that cheated his boss - because in all its clichéd glory, no sane person cheats his boss - and the next he's crashed into the sidewalk, a crushing pain in his shoulder and ears ringing louder than his obnoxious mother's doorbell.

The fucker shot him. He didn't even see the gun, he was blinded by the odd shade of silver cascading down his back and the young foal-haired kid running alongside him.

His lungs empty as he falls, forcing a yell through grinding teeth because oh, that hurts - that really fucking hurt-hurt-hurts. His walkie-talkie screams with white-noise static between angry shouts and questions and orders. What happened? Did you get him? Which one got shot? Runner thirteen. He's getting away. There's a runner down, go get him. He screws his eyes shut in attempt to fight back tears. He's fucked up. Royally.

His life doesn't flash before his eyes like it does in movies and sitcoms, but there's a face burned into his retinas by the fire the owner's secretly drawn to and he feels an ungodly pain in his chest -a completely different sort of pain to the throbbing and bleeding in his shoulder.

His heart squeezes itself for him. And it pisses him off maybe just a little less than being shot.

Footsteps echo around him, bouncing off the maze of alley walls and making his head pound. There's more yelling and louder voices, the sounds of heavy-grip boots tearing off the concrete and filth surrounding him, and God, shut up, too loud. Frantic hands work at ripping open his tee (his favourite one, dammit) and there's a sudden pressure against his wound before the blinding pain of what he knows to be a finger forcing its way into it. He grunts and spits curses as a tear sails down his temple, barely noticing the thumb that swipes it away.

'Roxy,'

Axel. He was the only one with balls of thick enough steel, so shiny they could've been stainless, to call him such a hated name.

'Don't you even _think_ of fucking dying on me,' growls the higher in command, and Roxas squints open a liquid-crystal eye to see the other crouched on top of him, phone and gun in one hand and focus trained on the thumb buried in sun-kissed skin to control the bleeding. His partner, Axel, looks pale -paler than Roxas had ever seen- and there's this wrinkly crease between the artist's smudges of his eyebrows. He looks terrified. It doesn't suit him.

'Piss off, Ax. It barely counts as a wound,' His shoulder throbs and he squints a little, 'it takes more than a bullet to take a Strife down, you of all people should know that, considering Cloud - ow! You dick - is still around,'

Axel laughs under his breath, rubbing at a scar on his arm from memories to prove that fact, but it's not the least bit convincing. The nervous lip-licking habit he has is running full swing, and the lazy part of Roxas' brain makes him want to warn Axel of the impending and chapped doom of his lips if he doesn't stop.

The wail of an ambulance begins to weave through the maze of walls and there's more voices around him, shouting things to Axel he doesn't catch because he's trying to get away. Number one rule that gets beaten into every single one of them is never to get caught, and that's exactly what an ambulance means. The voices vanish at Axel's orders, and the pain in his shoulder is worse from squirming while his partner was still staunching the blood, and he feels like he's going to puke and pass out and jump out of his skin all at the same time. Axel runs a sweaty hand through his blond curls, fiery fingers rubbing at his scalp in what he guessed was to supposedly soothe him while he was forced into the concrete.

It doesn't ease the pain at all, in fact he's hurting more now, but Roxas begins to think that maybe things will be alright when Axel hisses his cover story and name at him.

He closes his eyes as the paramedics thunder towards him and a millennium later, when he's loaded into an ambulance and an obviously newbie paramedic sticks a shaking needle into his arm, he feels Axel's palm, hot and heavy and pretty clammy in his and he squeezes before bitching about having a thumb shoved into his shoulder and how uncomfortable that is.

* * *

I have a thing for abusing Roxas idk

These titles are getting ridiculous


	4. D is for Diversity

**D is for Diversity**

Xigbar was special. Not special in the 'oh, aren't you just a snowflake' sense kind of special, but the special where he took your expectations and shat all over them. He was sarcastic and growly and grumpy ninety-seven per cent of the time, but he was also quiet and calm when he didn't think anyone was watching him. He would sit and stare at Kingdom Hearts for hours, just thinking, and then when someone else walked in he would make a snarky remark and rub them the wrong way. And when they left because he'd pissed them off, he'd go back to staring and thinking.

This one time, Demyx rounded the corner only to scoot back behind it, because Xigbar was on his knees on the floor and wiping tears off Xion's face with gloveless thumbs, asking her if she was okay in a quiet, soothing voice. When she had thrown herself at him and hugged him, he'd simply rubbed her shoulders and hushed her. Another time, he saw him grabbing something off the top shelf for an exasperated Zexion, and even gently brushing a giant knot out of Marluxia's hair as the flowered man sniffed about getting revenge on Axel.

After that, Demyx started watching Xigbar more closely, which was a lot of effort, the man was sneaky about himself. He learned that he liked way too much creamer in his coffee, didn't like the snow touching his face, and his very short 6am showers consisted of sugar-and-clementine shampoo. He always read the opinion section in the civilian newspapers first, and when Roxas insisted they put up a tree after learning what Christmas was, Xigbar was the one to gamble with Luxord (a very dangerous thing to do) to see who got to put the star up. He claimed it was because he was the only one, bar Lexaeus, who could put it on straight, but Demyx saw the way he held it like one would hold a newborn.

And on the supposed Christmas morning when they were all opening their - 'meaningless' Saix had growled, hand clenched around his werewolf figurine as everyone sniggered - gifts, Xigbar had scanned the room when he unwrapped a bottle of sugar-and-clementine shampoo, meeting Demyx's cockily raised eyebrow and sending him a soft, secret smile.

It was a lot of effort to figure out the diversity that was Xigbar, but it was worth it in the sitar player's eyes.

* * *

I wrote this while watching House, good God Hugh Laurie is a beautiful human.


	5. E is for Eidolon

**E is for Eidolon**

There were stars whenever he looked at someone, glitter if he glanced, winking to get his attention. They would frame the person's face, and dance and twinkle and sparkle at him, as if taunting him with the fact that that person had a future while he didn't. The stars would dance, then he'd blink and they'd be gone, but if he looked again they'd be back. The brighter the stars were, the more that spot behind his ribs hurt, the spot that's supposed to be filled but isn't and never will be without him, because they're _using_ him, and he goes with it because when he does their stars get brighter and make him smile. But, it's not a good smile and they all look away and whisper whenever he does it, so he doesn't do it that often.

But there was that one, the red one, that one that didn't have stars. He didn't know why, and he wanted to ask, because that one looked happy and smiled a lot and made a lot of jokes, but there were no stars. He wanted to take hold of the stars framing everyone else's faces in his calloused hands and bottle them up and give them to that one - because that one was like him and he didn't want anyone to be like him, he was himself, and he wouldn't share that with anyone, no one was allowed to take his place. But he likes the red one, because he doesn't look at him the way the others do, and he doesn't talk to him in the way the others do.

But the man, the one he had to see after being given a name and made him see all these stars, he took something from him and put it in another body, one that looked almost like him and felt like him and spoke like him, and he wanted it back, because it's his and why did it get taken away? He doesn't like it, the copy of him, and the red one doesn't like it either, and every time he looked at it he saw ghosts of stars and he was mad because those were his, or they might have been, but she has them and he wants them back. But he's nice to it, because the angry one that gives him things to do - the one that works for the one that uses him - always puts them together and will take away the red one if he isn't nice and civil.

The red one still doesn't have stars, but the copy does. Its stars are brighter than everyone else's stars and he's mad because he doesn't understand when she attacks him and the stars shine so bright that he's blinded.

* * *

To be honest, warping Roxas is more fun than it should be.


	6. F is for Frozen Stoops

**F is for Frozen Stoops**

A figure sat hunched on the icy steps of the stoop, black smudges most likely from the night before around their bright eyes and a gray tank-top hanging from their shoulders. Those eyes looked at her, looked through her it felt, scanned her up and down before blinking slowly, one eyebrow creeping up towards the line where their pink (and still ruffled from sleep, if the random tufts were anything to go by) hair met their forehead. She waved a little, minutely, just a twitch of her hand really, and he brought a cigarette up to his lips, watching her as she watched the blue curls snake into the air. The jangling of bracelets on his wrists caught her attention, and she noticed him holding a half-empty jar of a caramel liquid out to her, a disinterested look on his face as he took another drag of his cigarette.

She approached him, mentally wincing at the sound of her shoes scuffing along the ground. He didn't seem to care, merely shaking the jar a little to mix the insides before she took it from him with barely-shaking hands. She sniffed it a little before she thought to drink it, wrinkling her nose at the smell and noticing him raise both eyebrows and reach out to take it back. She shrugged him away, bringing the jar to her lips and taking a tentative sip. She let out a small sound at the unexpected sweetness, the taste of the cold coffee almost masked under the jazz tones of cinnamon. He hummed quietly at her reaction, before taking the jar back from her and gulping at it like the world was ending at his toes.

When he had drained the last of the jar and sat it next to his boot-clad feet, the glass clanking off the cement, he flicked his gaze towards her again. He looked her up and down once more, eyes landing on the camera that had been swinging from the strap on her wrist. His eyebrow cocked again - she figured it was something he did a lot - and his eyes met hers.

'I was taking photos,' she immediately replied, wincing at the sound of her voice high and squeaky, scraping through the air like cutlery on a plate. He nodded, holding a hand out towards her, long fingers occupied by weird rings flexing a little in a probable effort to fight off the crampedness that comes with morning. She stared at it for a moment, before coming to her senses and handing the camera over, watching him sit it on his knees and look through the photos she'd managed to take. He hummed a soft tune and nodded, even sniggering a little at that one she took of herself and forgot to delete, before turning it around and taking a picture of himself posing "sexily" at the lens. When he turned it around to see, he let out a barking laugh and then handed it back to her.

'Photography then; that's what you chose instead of drawing?' he questioned, referring back to all those months ago when they'd first met and she'd been ranting and raving on the rooftop about her (lack of) life choices. He'd taken it all in, humming the same tune and nodding and burning through an entire pack of cigarettes as he listened to her. To be honest, she'd been surprised he even remembered her, and she'd had thoughts of simply walking past him and pretending not to know him, until he'd held out his drink and offered recognition. He yawned, cold air billowing in front of him like a miniature cloud.

'Mhmm,' she replied, tugging on the hem of her dress, nodding when he did at her answer.

'Not bad,' he stretched his arms above his head, sighing at the feeling of ligaments pulling and joints popping, before standing and making his way up the steps. She frowned slightly, thinking he'd just walk away like the last time.

'Come back this way tomorrow,' he threw over his shoulder before shutting the door behind himself.

She smiled as she heard the deadbolt slide into place, before walking off with his humming tune stuck in her head and the image of the sun filtering through the flower-power-I'll-rip-your-nads-off curls strolling down the nape of his neck dancing behind her eyes.

* * *

What's this, vagina-equipped specimen interacting platonically with teste-creature? Wowie.


	7. G is for Gracious

**G is for Gracious**

Roxas finds himself mindlessly strolling around the small, "cozy" apartment he shares with his friends - who had decided to break out the 'New Year Bong' an hour prior and roped him into it - and running calloused fingertips along the so, so soft wallpaper. He's trying to keep himself busy while Axel naps but unfortunately, it's not panning out so smoothly for him.

He's done practically everything he could possibly do around his shared home, the cooking (bad idea), cleaning the bathroom (bad idea), tucking in a _very_ stoned Xigbar (definitely a bad idea) and counting the stains on the carpet in the living room (not such a bad idea) and now, even though he was loathe to admit it, he was bored. He knows that Axel needs his alone time when he's stoned and in all his gracious Aryan lookalike glory just wants to give him that by not pestering him while he naps, but he finds himself debating on whether or not he wants to go into the proverbial lion's den and disturb him, because he really, _really_, wants a hug.

In the end, he eventually does. Only after the best pep-talk on the planet in which he convinced himself Axel wasn't going to rip his long-awaited Adam's apple out, and waiting at least a thousand years (read; three and a bit minutes) in front of the bedroom door before even walking in, of course.

The teen ensures he's completely, totally silent when he twists the doorknob and trips into the bedroom. Axel's back is turned to him - thankfully - which makes it easier to shuffle and skate unnoticed in his socks across the cold laminate floor. Oh so carefully, he tears into the bed and settles behind Axel, who's still snoring slightly in that way he always denies doing.

For another thousand years (twenty seconds), Roxas just lies there and stares at the back of Axel's head, counting the red ropes making up his customary French braid he does before sleep. He scoots just a little, teeny bit closer to him so his forehead is pressed against the elder's hoodie and nervously, he lifts his arms so they wrap around his waist.

He quickly closes his eyes and pretends he's also asleep when he feels Axel start to move and mutter. His heart beat speeds up slightly because he knows Axel is going to snap at him for disturbing his sleep and kick him out, and he still _really wants his hug. _

But instead of being snapped at, Roxas finds himself being enveloped in a pair of mom's-wooden-whacking-spoon arms and pulled closer so his face is smooshed against Axel's chest. When no words are spoken by the elder, Roxas guesses that he's still asleep and has hugged him back on reflex, and therefore he relaxes completely within the redhead's hold and releases a small sigh of content as he nuzzles into the pot-and-fabric-softener warmth.

Roxas fails to notice, however, the thin hand creeping up the back of his shirt to pinch harshly over and over at the freckle-dotted skin. He jolts away and yelps, and Axel pulls him closer again with a mumbled string of insults for waking him up.


	8. H is for Hands

**H is for Hands**

Demyx couldn't pull his eyes away from where Axel had his hands resting on the couch, fingers bare from the uniform-issue gloves and pulling absentmindedlyat the fabric while Saix droned on, the blond having long since ignored the speech that seemed to be recited at least once a week; to "boost moral".

It bored him to tears anyway.

He very much preferred to watch the pale skin of Axel's fingers flash in the sparks Larxene was passing between her own hands, smoothing and tapping along the stitching of the leather.

Demyx's strange (strange because he handled water, and Axel handled fire, and everyone knows fire and water don't go) obsession with Axel's hands was well known in the Organization; Lexaeus would often tap him discreetly on the shoulder to signal he was being more obvious than usual - not that Xigbar's smirk, or the giggling of Roxas and Xion, or the sigh from Zexion weren't good enough warnings.

Everyone knew, even Xemnas, because Saix apparently felt it his duty to report absolutelyeverything, no mater how small.

Everyone except the Nobody in question, much to everyone else'samusement and the mulleted man's undying chagrin.

So caught up was he in lamenting that fact, he didn't even realize that he had made the decision to even lift his hand before he had reached out to grab the dancing digits. Axel's burning velvet palm slid across Demyx's cool skin, worn from years of sitar playing. Axel's surprisingly delicate fingers linked with his own without any resistance.

The redhead's skin was so soft, softer than he'd imagined one in his field could be in possession of, the molten contact practically branded the contours of his hand into Demyx's own.

But he held firm, watching from the corner of his eye as the approving smirk Axel wore grew as he gripped the younger boy's hand tighter - especially when Saix's harsh eyes landed on them and his lip twitched a little.

* * *

I should be studying, I have an exam tomorrow  
_But_ _distractions  
__So many distractions  
_Also the reason this is so short and shit oh well

Friendly reminder that I have a tumblr!


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